


Find Me a Find, Catch Me a Catch

by Nia_River



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (no longer a oneshot), Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Harry, First Time, Marriage of Convenience, Two Shot, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_River/pseuds/Nia_River
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Voldemort’s near-defeat three years past, Hazel Potter’s health has been in steady decline. After much searching she finally discovers a possible cure. It’s … unexpected to say the least. Meanwhile Lucius Malfoy, three years widowed, is searching for a solution to his own problems. Mayhap they can help one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hazel

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do a fem!Harry story for a while, and this is the first I've finished. It's just a oneshot, and not terribly long, but I think it wraps up all it's loose ends well enough. Being that Harry was born a girl, you can assume some AU-ness. Any relevant deviations will be mentioned, the rest is left to your imagination. Oh, and title is from the lyrics of that 'Matchmaker, Matchmaker' song.
> 
> (Edited 6 July, 2014: fixed some typos, plus a bit of a timeline problem I didn't clarify well, and changed a few parts. Ditto on 12 October, 2015)

The problem of Hazel’s chronic fatigue and unreliable magic had started three years ago, after the Battle of Hogwarts. But with war still raging, Voldemort still terrorising, she hadn’t had time to deal with it. She’d forged onwards even as it worsened, hoping against hope that her magic wouldn’t fail at a critical time, and by some miracle it hadn’t. By some miracle she’d made it through the war, and _won_.

Once peace settled in however, Hazel immediately set to consulting various magical medical specialists from all around the world, hoping for an answer to her health problem. For long months she searched, even visiting a few Muggle doctors. Though of course, no Muggle could be made be privy to the whole story behind her illness, nor the full breadth of her symptoms. Statute of Secrecy, and all that.

Finally though, _finally_ , she had her answer.

It didn’t fix things.

She had managed to obtain a consultation with a famous wizarding shaman known only as the ‘Sage’. The man was older than any she’d ever met, approaching two hundred years and looking every bit of it. She had worried, as he performed his rituals and chants, that he might break apart just from the strain of standing on his own two feet.

The Sage had been a desperate gamble. She knew at that stage that it was either confess the whole truth, even about the Horcruxes and her visit to Limbo and the Deathly Hallows—all things she had intended never to speak of again, for it was too risky, could attract the wrong attention or give dark wizards ideas—or else resign herself to her situation. Well, Hazel had never known how to give up. She confessed.

Apparently that was all that was needed, that little extra information. Or perhaps it was simply down to the skills of the legendary shaman who was diagnosing her. Either way, she finally knew that becoming a Horcrux at such a young age had twisted her soul. It had grown around the Horcrux, almost intertwined. Now that Voldemort’s soul was no longer a part of her, Hazel’s own was faltering. If her soul were a building, it would be missing walls and beams and in danger of collapse. She wouldn’t die. No, it wasn’t fatal. But she _would_ eventually find herself almost bedridden. Worse still, her magic would degrade to such a state that it would rarely respond, and then only in weak fits and starts.

It made Hazel sick to know Voldemort was such an integral part in who she was, and that even after everything, even after he was gone for good, he was still ruining her life.

“There is a way,” the Sage had told her in his whispery voice, “that you might compensate for what was lost.”

She had to find another soul to take its place. Oh, not a Horcrux or anything _dark_. Rather, Hazel needed a spiritual connection, something that would allow another’s essence to fill those empty places in her, support her soul which could not stand strong alone anymore.

She needed to undertake a magical marriage bond.

* * *

Hazel’s first and thereafter best friend was Neville Longbottom. She met the shy boy on the train to Hogwarts searching for his lost pet. Sitting alone in her compartment with nothing better to do, she offered to help. Together they searched, and as they did so, chatted as new acquaintances were wont to do. She found him shy but sweet, and genuinely kind.

They gravitated together after that.

The other girls in her house and dorm weren’t really her sort of people. Lavender and Parvati were fashion-obsessed, gossipy ditzes who spent most of their time talking about boys and makeup and fashion, and cared little for actually learning magic unless it was a cosmetic charm. Hermione was the opposite, but to the extreme. She was _obsessively_ studious and bossy in a way that reminded Hazel unpleasantly of her Aunt Petunia, for all that Hermione, at least, seemed to have good intentions behind her attitude.

And so Hazel mostly stuck with Neville, and their friendship grew from strength to strength. She learned that she couldn’t have befriended a more loyal and stalwart boy. He was a well of hidden depths and strengths. Really, if not for the godsibling relationship they shared due to their mothers being each other’s godmother, Hazel would have fallen head over heels for him. When she learned of it however, her affections became locked as firmly platonic, sisterly.

It was through Neville that she got to know Augusta Longbottom, when he invited her to visit over the Christmas break of first year. A more intimidating woman Hazel had never met, and she worried at first that Madam Longbottom disapproved of her. But Neville assured her that it was simply his grandmother’s way to be so stern and aloof. If she didn’t like Hazel, she would not be invited back to Longbottom Demesne. And so it was with great joy and relief to Hazel that, when next they met at King’s Cross at the end of the school year, she found Madam Longbottom personally inviting her to visit over the summer holidays.

Augusta Longbottom had taken Hazel under her wing. Slowly, she found herself learning the wizarding culture and customs she had been deprived of, becoming aware of her inherited estate and how to manage it, and understanding her position in wizarding society. Before she knew it, Hazel looked at herself one day and realised she’d transformed from a scrawny, unsure girl with oversized clothes and sellotaped glasses, into a young, blossoming witch of grace and poise, dressing and acting as befitted the heiress of House Potter.

When she visited during holidays after fourth year, seeing Madam Longbottom for the first time since that revelation, Hazel presented the woman with a bouquet of flowers carefully chosen to convey gratitude and thanks and appreciation, and a full, deep curtsey of intense respect. For the first time she saw the older woman’s countenance turn fond, outside of the very rare occasions she bestowed a soft look on Neville or his parents in St Mungo’s.

“Call me Augusta, dear,” she had told Hazel, patting her cheek and laying a kiss on her brow, while Neville looked on with pride and happiness.

* * *

Naturally, on learning of her predicament and only hope for a healthy and full life, Hazel’s first stop was Longbottom Demesne.

“Hello Tipple,” she greeted the house-elf as she came through the Floo. “I’d like to see the Mistress of the household if she’s available.”

“Of course. Please follow Tipple to the receiving room and he will fetch Mistress.”

Hazel sat with back straight, hands folded lightly in her lap, and her ankles demurely crossed to one side as she waited. She stared out the window at the impressive gardens, spotting Neville halfway up a ladder by a flowering fire-blossom tree, pruning branches with an Aguamenti Charm.

“Hazel. It has been _far_ too long.”

She stood and greeted her host with a bobbing curtsey, then graced her with a genuine smile.

Truly, it _had_ been some time since she visited. Too long. They’d barely caught up at all since the Final Battle. She’d even missed the now-traditional joint birthday celebration she and Neville usually held, and their _twenty-first_ at that, because she had been too busy chasing her cure. Hazel felt a bit guilty about it, but knew they understood.

“Augusta,” she greeted, “how are you?”

The woman sighed and limped over to Hazel, taking the seat opposite. Hazel waited until she was settled before sitting back down herself.

“Tired, first of all,” Augusta confessed. “Also relieved, that Neville and I, and you of course, made it through it all. Glad, that Voldemort is finally defeated. _Delighted_ ,” she said, with almost vicious satisfaction, “that the last of the Lestranges is finally dead. And, of course, frustrated beyond the telling about having to hobble about on this thing.”

She rapped the walking cane on the ground for emphasis, before dropping it unceremoniously on the other end of her lounge with an expression of distaste.

Hazel wasn’t surprised that the strong, capable woman hated having to depend on such a thing.

“And you?” Augusta asked with a piercing look that bespoke her concern. “You look more wearied each time I see you. Has there been any progress from the Healers?”

Hazel took a deep breath, and then told Augusta about the Sage and everything she’d learned.

There was a long, thoughtful silence after that. Hazel’s gaze returned to the window. Neville was now bare-chested in deference to the heat, lugging a heavy bag of fertilizer across the lawn. He carried the weight with impressive ease.

“If only he wasn’t so very much my _brother_ ,” she lamented.

“Yes,” Augusta agreed. “You two would have made a fine couple. I would have approved wholeheartedly.”

Hazel was naturally touched by the compliment. She knew Augusta loved her grandson fiercely, despite her usually reserved manner. The witch to whom Augusta gave her blessing to marry Neville would have to be something special indeed.

“Have you any prospects in mind? Would-be-suitors?” Augusta asked.

Hazel sighed. “Too many to count. I’ve had more expressions of interest—proper, improper and _highly_ improper—than I know what to do with since defeating Voldemort.”

“You will provide me with a list of these improper and highly improper suitors,” Augusta said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I will eliminate them as candidates at once.”

“Candidates?” Hazel asked.

“Of course. Surely you don’t intend to ask _someone else_ to be your Matchmaker,” she said, tone all prickly, affronted dignity.

Hazel blinked, and considered the possibility.

A Matchmaker was an old tradition. It was rarely used these days. Most children, even pure-blooded ones, were allowed to seek their own partners and initiate courtships as they wished, provided their intended object of matrimony was approved of by the family. Only in cases of important heirs who showed no sign of settling down and continuing the line did such interference become warranted. But, now that she thought about it, Hazel supposed that having a Matchmaker was exactly what she needed. She had to marry, no two ways about it—she would sooner die than lose her beloved magic, or become so weak and defenceless as to be confined to a bed—and she had no established preferences or sweetheart. Wasn’t that exactly what a Matchmaker was for?

Hazel nodded. “Yes,” she said slowly. Then, with more surety, “Yes, a Matchmaker would be a good idea.” She bit her lip and looked out at the garden once again. Neville was by the flower beds now, looking quite industrious. “I have to marry of a necessity. I should have liked more time to find someone, but it is what it is. And so long as I must marry, I truly hope to find someone I could love, if not right away, then at some point.” She turned back to the other woman and smiled warmly. “There is no matriarch I would trust as much as you, Augusta, to know me well enough to make me a promising Match.”

Augusta graced her with of her exceedingly rare smiles. Just a small thing, barely a twitch of the lips, but it made Hazel feel loved and reassured.

“I will do my utmost to ensure your happiness, my dear.”

“I know you will.”

* * *

“Marriage?” Neville said, flabbergasted.

Hazel nodded, and flopped onto her back.

If they were anything but godsiblings it would be _highly_ improper, her being alone with Neville in his room, let alone on his bed with him. But godsiblings they were, and more besides. When she had tried to convince Neville that she could hunt the Horcruxes alone, he unequivocally refused to back down no matter how dangerous it might be. He told her she was an idiot to think he would, because he could never abandon his sister. To prove his point, he cut his hand right then and there and offered her a bloodsibling oath. Knowing that to reject the offer was to reject him, and unable to fathom doing such a thing, Hazel returned the gesture.

She unconsciously traced the faint, golden scar on her palm, which remained as evidence of their bond.

They were as good as bornsiblings now and there was no impropriety in their familiarity.

“It’s the only way,” she reminded him.

Neville winced. “I know. You explained it. I _hate_ that Voldemort did that to you.”

“Me too.”

“But still, marriage. We’re so young. I’ve not even considered it myself yet.”

“Nor had I, not seriously, not until the Sage told me.”

Her voice was quiet, sad. She hated that her choices were being taken away from her. Too much of her life had been controlled by outside forces, and this was just one more thing.

Neville, empathic and quietly perceptive as always, understood the direction of her thoughts and pulled her into a hug. Hazel sighed and snuggled closer.

“It’ll be okay,” Neville promised, voice ringing with determination. “We’ll _make_ it okay. Somehow. Even if I have to kidnap all the candidates and illegally dose them with Veritaserum to make sure they’re really what they present themselves as.”

“You’ll make sure they’re good enough for me, huh?”

Neville scoffed. “No one will ever be good enough for my sister.” He kissed the top of her head. “Sorry Hazel, you’ll have to settle for grudgingly acceptable.”

She laughed, her heart feeling lighter.

* * *

“What?” Hazel gasped, breath escaping in a great whoosh.

Surely she had heard wrongly. Surely, _surely_ , Augusta hadn’t just said who Hazel thought she said. Surely she hadn’t said _Lucius Malfoy_.

Yes, _technically_ the man was a valid candidate. He’d been widowed at the Battle of Hogwarts—what should have been the _last_ battle, if only they could have gotten to Nagini sooner—and three years’ mourning was a more than respectable time to wait before remarrying. But that didn’t change the fact that it was _Lucius_ _Malfoy_.

Hazel gripped Neville’s hand tighter in her own and looked at him. He didn’t look surprised.

“You knew. And you didn’t overrule it?” Her voice broke, and she blinked her eyes rapidly to hold back tears. “Why?”

“Hazel, please, just let gran explain.” When she looked doubtful, he squeezed her hand back and met her eyes unflinching. “You know gran would never lead you wrong. And more, you know _me_. You know how much I love you, care about you. _Sister_ , trust that if the situation was really as you fear, I’d have taken up arms before letting it happen. There’s more to the story than you’re aware of.”

Hazel swallowed around the lump in her throat. She took a few steadying breaths and pulled back, nodding. He was right. If she couldn’t trust Neville, who could she trust?

“Okay. Okay.” She looked towards Augusta whose expression was painfully neutral and ducked her head guiltily. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to doubt you. I trust you, I do. I wouldn’t have asked you to be my Matchmaker if I didn’t.”

Augusta’s expression turned stern, which from anyone else would have been disheartening. From this naturally-stern woman however, Hazel knew it merely meant she had let her blank mask down, and she sighed in relief to know she was forgiven.

“It’s understandable,” Augusta allowed. “My choice for you is doubtless a shock.”

“Completely and utterly so,” Hazel agreed, and politely asked, “Will you explain it to me?”

“Of course. Simply put, apart from the obvious strike against him–”

“Which is no small thing,” Hazel muttered to herself, but was ignored.

“–he is the most ideal Match for you, based on the needs, wants and personal preferences I determined.”

And hadn’t it been a huge task, working those preferences out? For hours on end Hazel had been questioned and quizzed on topics from the expected, to the strange, to the embarrassingly personal. Augusta had been exhaustingly thorough, and from what Hazel knew, she had also extensively questioned people close to Hazel, explaining that a person could not always see themselves clearly in all aspects, so it was best to get outside opinions as well. She’d grilled Neville, Hazel’s three dorm mates from Hogwarts, all her professors, especially her Head of House McGonagall, and even bullied her way into interrogating Professor Dumbledore’s portrait.

The only relevant people she hadn’t bothered with were the Dursleys, sniffing dismissively and declaring that, “Given what you’ve confided regarding their treatment of you, their opinions wouldn’t be worth so much as the breath they used to speak them.”

And so, naturally, Hazel asked, “Which preferences, specifically?” Because there had been an awful lot of questions for an awful lot of people, and she hadn’t been told yet what conclusions Augusta had drawn.

“You need someone mature, someone older,” Augusta said with certainty. “You’ve endured much, and it has made you wiser than your years. No childish boy would suit.”

“Which was Ron right out of the running,” Neville commented.

“Wait– _Weasley_?” Hazel cried. “He was a candidate?”

“My dear,” Augusta said dryly, “half the wizarding world responded to the Match Call I put out.”

“There were even a fair few witches in the mix.”

Hazel flushed. “But I don’t– I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I–”

“I know,” Neville assured her. “Which is why they were out of the running too.”

“Right. What else did you base your decision on Augusta?”

“You professed a desire to see the Potter family continued, and to keep the name yourself in some fashion. A very understandable wish. The Potters have a long and noble history and it would be a true shame to see the line die out. However, a lot of men—be they pure-blood, half-blood, or muggle-born—take immediate offence to the idea of a wife who keeps her surname and wants their child to bear it too.”

Augusta actually rolled her eyes as she sniffed derisively. She, as Hazel knew, had insisted on keeping _her_ own name when she married, and passing it on to her children. Really, Hazel hadn’t been surprised. Augusta was a proud witch, and a proud Longbottom, and it seemed inconceivable that she should ever cast her name aside. Hazel had gathered enough hints, however, to know Augusta’s conviction had made it hard for her to find an interested husband.

“I thought that might be the case.”

“And so I eliminated all those who were unwilling to allow you to keep the name Potter, or grant it to your firstborn so they might be the Potter heir. My choice agreed surprisingly freely, but as he pointed out, he already has an heir for his own family name.”

“Yes,” Hazel said slowly with a frown as she thought of Draco. She worried how he would react to this. They’d never exactly gotten along. “Yes, I suppose he does.”

“Next I demanded that the candidates not even _think_ that they would have access to your estate, including rights to your image, and profit from your fame. You are to retain full control.”

“And I suppose the Malfoy family is rich enough that it doesn’t matter to him.”

“Got rid of a bunch with that condition,” Neville said, scowling. “Gold-digging bastards.”

“ _Language_!”

“Sorry gran,” he automatically responded.

“Yes, well, while poorly-phrased it was not an inaccurate summation of their characters,” Augusta allowed primly and inclined her head when Neville snickered and Hazel allowed herself a giggle. “I also sought someone who would love your children as fiercely as you will.”

“But–” Hazel paused and considered.

She never would have described Lucius Malfoy as ‘loving’, but with what she’d seen in the war, she supposed it wasn’t inaccurate. He, his belated wife, his son … _all_ of them had displayed a devotion to one another in the midst of all the chaos. It spoke well of Lucius really, that he not only possessed such a value himself, but had sought it in his spouse and taught it to his child. No doubt he would teach it to any other children they had. Hazel shied away from the thought of _their_ children. It was too bizarre to consider, and she’d yet to be convinced on the wisdom of such a match.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Fair enough. On paper he does sound great so far, but what about integrity and honour? I want to marry a _good_ man. Someone who would not only treat me well, but who wouldn’t do anything I’d find morally reprehensible. He was a _Death Eater_. Even if he honestly came to regret it, it still shows he’s capable of bad decisions and has deeply questionable morals.”

“Oh, this is where it gets good,” Neville said happily. “I insisted on this part when I realised who gran was leaning towards, because I had the same concerns as you. He swore an Unbreakable Vow.”

Hazel gasped. “He _what_?” she whispered, eyes wide.

“I was shocked at Neville’s gall in asking,” Augusta said, understandably. Such vows were very serious business, not demanded except in extreme circumstances. “But then, to my utter surprise, Malfoy agreed. He swore it to me on your behalf, and Neville acted as bonder.”

Augusta seemed very satisfied with that. Smug, almost, even though it had been Neville’s doing rather than her own, though doubtless she had negotiated the wording. In spite of his many virtues, Neville would never be a wordsmith.

“What– what was the vow, exactly? The wording?”

“That if you married, he would: respect you, both your person and your freedom; that he would be faithful and true, seeking no mistress and telling no lies; and that so long as you were wed, he would do nothing to shame you, including immoral actions that would make you shamed to have him as husband.”

“All things considered,” Neville said seriously, “there might have been others who were more obvious choices, with less troublesome pasts. But only he offered that sort of ironclad assurance of his character going forward, and your wellbeing as his spouse, if he were chosen. I think this is your best option, Hazel. I really do.”

Hazel just sat silently, staring blankly ahead for a long moment. He would respect her, treat her well. He would not inhibit her freedom and choices—a condition she attributed to Neville’s suggestion, because he knew how much she despised being controlled. He wouldn’t take a mistress, even though it was acceptable in pureblood circles after an heir was born—and this part she laid at Augusta’s feet, for Hazel had mentioned during her long questioning that she would hate for a husband who cheated on her, even if the marriage _was_ an arranged one. And the last part, that he would do nothing immoral that would make her ashamed to be his wife? It sounded vague at first glance. But actually, when she really considered it, she realised it was simply widely-inclusive.

All in all, the vow was perfect, as if made just for her. And it had been, of course, by the two people who knew her best.

The question now was whether she could accept the Match.

Hazel closed her eyes, reminded herself that Neville and Augusta loved her, _knew_ her, and would not lead her wrong, and then took a leap of faith.

“Okay,” she said, opening her eyes to look at them both. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

The wedding was small. Hazel had never been one for flashy, overdone shows, nor attention. The last thing she wanted was a great spectacle with hundreds of guests and reporters and photographers. She had expected her betrothed to object, but if anything, Augusta told her, he seemed to highly approve of her choice of a simple hand-fasting. She realised, on second thought, that Lucius _was_ a traditionalist, and would of course appreciate so traditional a ceremony

She came to the altar in nothing but a simple, undyed robe—albeit with a flattering cut—as did he. They were both barefooted, their hair unbound. Hazel wore a crown of flowers that Lucius had made her: ivy for marriage and fidelity, red carnation for admiration, and blue iris for hope, with Stephanotis for marital felicity and yellow plumeria for a new beginning. All in all, he had chosen quite well for their situation.

They each had only one person to stand for them—he had his son of course, while she had Neville—and then there was Augusta to officiate the ceremony. They let her make a shallow cut on their wrists with a silver dagger, before joining hands so their pulses touched and their blood mingled. Augusta led them through the vows, wrapping a ribbon around their hands after each was spoken, symbolically binding them.

While her betrothed chose her crown, Hazel chose the ribbons: white for marriage of course; light blue for patience and understanding, for they had a lot of bad history to overcome; gold, expressing hope for stability and a successful marriage; and finally green, for prosperity and fertility. The last had been a little awkward to add, but she couldn’t leave it out. Hazel had always known she wanted children, a family of her own, and wouldn’t pass up the chance of a blessing on that wish because she was embarrassed.

As the last vow was made, Augusta, Neville and Draco rested their wands over Hazel and Lucius’s bound hands and incanted the Matrimonial Chant, and then they were wed.

* * *

Hazel’s heartbeat raced as Lucius led her into the bedroom with a hand lightly resting on the small of her back. She’d known this part was coming, known that the bond would only be finalised with consummation, but the necessity didn’t lessen her nerves any. Her romantic experience was extremely limited: a crush on Oliver Wood in third year, plus a date to the Yule Ball and a lot of kissing with Cormac McLaggen in fourth, before she realised what an utter prat he was. Her sexual experience was non-existent—she'd been too busy fighting a war in the years since then to spare time for boys.

“Tea, Miss Po– apologies, Mrs Malfoy-Potter?”

She startled at the question, and turned to find Lucius staring down at her with knowing eyes, as if her nerves were written plainly on her face. She winced at being so transparent.

And then there was the other part. Mrs Malfoy-Potter. Yes, that was her name now wasn’t it? That would take some getting used to.

“Please, I think under the circumstances just Hazel would be more appropriate.”

As olive branches went it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t brilliant either.

Hazel was married now, but for the one last thing she was trying not to think about. She was married to _Lucius Malfoy_. This was the man she would be with for the rest of her life. This would be the father of her children. It was a terrifyingly overwhelming thought. But Hazel had resolved herself, in the lead-up to the wedding, that regardless of their less-than-amicable history—and yes, she knew she was _vastly_ understating things—she was going to try her best to bridge the gap between them. She would be open to any hint of friendship or affection they might develop, rather than remain aloof and eventually descend into resentment and bitterness. She’d suffered enough already. She owed it to herself to grasp any happiness she could, no matter how unexpected the source.

To her utter relief, Lucius seemed to be of the same mind. He actually offered her a slight smile as he returned the courtesy.

“If you’ll call me Lucius.”

Good. This was a good start.

And had he offered tea before? As that finally registered she felt a great well of relief. Yes, tea would be perfect right now. Something to help calm her nerves. And they could chat a little while they drank, something they hadn’t had a chance to do yet. That was how a Matchmaker worked. You didn’t meet your spouse-to-be till you were at the altar. Technically, you weren’t even _told_ about them, but August and Neville had guessed—quite rightly, too—that if they hadn’t explained themselves and won Hazel around before the day, she might have called the whole thing off.

“Lucius, then,” she said. “And yes, tea sounds lovely.”

They settled side-by-side on a lounge by the fire. As Lucius produced a tea tray and Hazel served them out, they chatted. The usual, pointless small talk strangers made seemed almost comical given the intimacy of their situation. It was several minutes later, as she sipped her tea, that Hazel finally worked up the nerve to ask a deeper question.

“Why did you want to marry me?”

“A number of reasons, some, I confess, quite pragmatic.”

He watched her closely, as if judging her reaction before saying more. Hazel could easily guess what he meant though—had taken it into consideration before she agreed—and only nodded.

“The Malfoy name,” she said, without resentment. “It’s taken a hard blow with your positions in the war. The Witch Which Won marrying into the family will restore a lot of its reputation.”

“Yes. You’re not offended?”

“No,” Hazel said honestly. “We’ve both got some selfish reasons for going into this. I only initiated a Match Call because I need the bond.” She paused. “Augusta explained that, yes?”

Augusta had said she would tell him—just about Hazel’s symptoms and the cure, not the cause, not about the Horcrux—but verification didn’t hurt.

“She did.”

“You said a number of reasons?”

“The other concerns Draco. His preferences, you see, lie … with the same gender.”

Her eyes went wide. “He’s _gay_? But what about Pansy?”

“Miss Parkinson? Yes, I understand she was quite smitten, but Draco told her he didn’t return her affections.” Lucius grimaced faintly. “He had to be delicate about it though, her father being an important business associate. Unfortunately they’d been acquainted since they were toddlers, and Miss Parkinson knew Draco well enough to know he had _no problem_ being bluntly honest about a lack of interest or dislike in general. So she took his gentle refusal and continued courtesy towards her as a sign that he was merely ‘denying his feelings’, or some such tripe.”

Hazel thought of Pansy, obsessed and sickeningly doting, and could easily see her deluding herself into that sort of thing.

Just then a thought struck her. A horrible, terrible, _hilarious_ thought. If obsession could be an expression of attraction and Draco was gay… Suddenly, Draco’s obsessive rivalry with Ron Weasley took on a new light. Pulling pigtails? Hazel decided not to mention the possibility. It would probably give Lucius a heart attack.

“While Draco would consent to a marriage to beget an heir,” Lucius continued, “I know he’d be unhappy tied to a woman. Ideally he would have had brothers or sisters to depend on to carry on the line, but Narcissa was never able to have any more.”

“But a younger half-brother or sister could as easily be named his heir,” Hazel said with understanding. “If you’re depending on me to provide a Malfoy heir, why did you agree for our eldest to carry on the Potter name instead?”

“If all else fails, Draco has promised to marry. But Madam Longbottom did say you were interested in a large family. There will be other children.”

“Well, I don’t know about large, but certainly above average. Probably four or five.” She eyed him a bit nervously. “Is that okay with you? Having so many?”

“More than,” he said softly. “I confess, even outside the necessity of continuing the Malfoy name, I always wanted more children. And Draco always wanted siblings too.”

“So all things considered, he’s really okay with this? You marrying me, I mean?”

“All things considered, he is very pleased.”

“I’m glad,” Hazel said with relief. “I was worried how he’d take it. We didn’t get off to the best start.” She remembered that their first year at Hogwarts was especially contentious. “He didn’t like that I wouldn’t ditch Neville on his say-so. I’d think he was jealous if I didn’t know better.”

“He probably was. Draco never lacked for anything growing up, material or otherwise, until he couldn’t win your friendship,” Lucius said, surprising her with his frankness. “He certainly sent enough letters complaining about Mr Longbottom to support the jealousy theory as well. He stopped early into his second year though. Just a mention in a letter, asking if I knew you and Mr Longbottom were godsiblings, and that was it.”

“He _did_ back off just after that fact came out,” Hazel said with realisation. “Focussed all his school rivalry on Ron Weasley instead. I suppose it’s one thing to be rejected for another classmate, and another that I was merely sticking by my brother.”

“Precisely. He was raised to understand the importance of blood and magical ties.”

“Neville and I have both now.”

“Both?”

She held out her right arm. As she displayed the scar on her palm to his eyes, her own gaze was drawn to her _left_ arm. On her wrist was a new, silvery line. That scar would turn gold as well, once the marriage bond was finalised.

“Bloodsibling oath,” she explained to him as she turned her attention back to her right palm.

“Ah. Well, that would make Mr Longbottom my brother-in-law then, I suppose,” Lucius said bemusedly.

Hazel froze for a moment, taking in that fact. That utterly ridiculous fact. And then a couple more, even more outlandish, struck her. She was unable to help herself. She started laughing.

“What?” Lucius asked.

“Draco, calling Neville ‘uncle’,” she managed to get out. “Or me ‘step-mother’.”

Lucius actually grinned in response to her mirth, and Hazel’s breath caught. Not only was the sight unexpected, it was also a stunning look on him. No wonder Lucius was so dour in public, she reflected ironically. Otherwise he’d have people drooling over him every time he went out.

Hazel blushed as she realised the direction of her thoughts. She’d never really given thought to Lucius Malfoy’s attractiveness before. Why would she have? She was embarrassed to be doing so now. Except … there was nothing wrong with it, was there? He _was_ her husband. Why shouldn’t she admire him?

Defying the urge to look away, Hazel kept right on staring. She absently noted that his eyes crinkled when amused. And also, his grin had faded, and he was giving her a look that made the flush return to her cheeks.

She didn’t object as he brushed a strand of her hair behind an ear, revealing the silvery line on his own wrist, then leaned down to kiss her.

She had expected this evening to be very business-like: under the blankets, get it done and go their separate ways the rest of the night. This was an unexpected development. But not, she decided after a moment’s consideration, an unwelcome one. If this night could be more than a necessity between them, if it could in fact be pleasurable, then all the better.

And so she kissed him back.

Hazel loved kissing. It had been her favourite part of dating Cormac. She always got caught up in it, throwing her whole self into the process. Kissing, Hazel was of the firm opinion, should be _savoured_. And so she was unsurprised to realise that, without even intending to, she’d crawled right into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Lucius looked down at her with an expression of … surprise, perhaps? The sort of surprise where you’d found something unexpected, but _not_ something unwanted. It was a _pleasant_ surprise. He ran his hands up her back and watched with approval as she arched against him in response, breasts pressing into his chest. And when he buried his fingers in her hair and gently tugged, Hazel let her head fall back and her eyes flutter shut.

Lucius made a pleased sound and ducked his head to pepper kisses on her throat and Hazel hummed, her own hands dragging down his arms, his chest, feeling the strength of him. He was _very_ nicely proportioned, she acknowledged, as she began to tug at his robe.

“Up,” Lucius said in a gravelly voice.

They stood from the lounge and he began backing her towards the bed with hands on her hips. With each step closer he rucked up her robe a little more. When her knees hit the mattress, he tugged it off entirely.

For a moment her nerves returned. Her hands fluttered, unsure whether to cover herself or not. Lucius grasped them and pressed a kiss to the tip of each finger, slowly, one at a time. She felt herself relaxing.

“You’ve _nothing_ to be self-conscious about,” he assured her, blatantly admiring.

She flushed and bit her lip, freeing one hand to tug shyly at his robe again. He obeyed her unspoken request and quickly disposed of his own clothes. And then they were both naked before one another.

Hazel was torn between staring and looking away. She wanted to look, because he was _a sight_ , and she was becoming increasingly less surprised by her attraction. But wasn’t staring rude? Or would it be rude _not_ to look, would it make him think she wasn’t pleased with him? Gathering together all her courage, she forced herself to speak.

“You’re very handsome as well.”

He didn’t smile, per se, but his eyes did that crinkling thing again.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said.

And then Lucius was kissing her again, and her breath caught at the feel of her nipples rubbing against his chest, and the press of his hard cock against her stomach. She let herself be eased back onto the bed, and let her legs fall apart when his hand wandered downward.

Hazel gave a disappointed huff when he pulled back from their kisses. Lucius chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound. He lay on his side beside her, chin in his free hand, watching her with an almost uncomfortable intensity. Hazel closed her eyes against it, and licked her lips and just let herself _feel_.

His fingers explored her folds, outer then inner, sliding through her slickness. When he pressed a finger inside her it made her breath catch because, _oh_ , was _that_ what it was all about? Hazel had never gotten any particular satisfaction from that sort of thing—from anything penetrative—when she pleasured herself alone in her bed. When it was _someone else_ pressing a second finger inside her however, it seemed pleasure was _all_ she could feel, even before a thumb began to rub at her clit.

“Oh,” she cried out as a third finger entered her. Her hands fisted in the sheets as she twisted and her breathing grew more rapid. “I’m going to– I’m going–”

And then she could say no more, just cry out as she crested that wave of pleasure, and as he kept working her till she reached a second, smaller peak, and weakly pushed his hand away because it was becoming too much.

When her eyes fluttered back open, Hazel let her head fall lazily to the side. She was too sated to be nervous at the dark, passionate look now directed at her. When Lucius kissed her again she welcomed him lazily but eagerly, parting her lips so he could lick into her mouth. And when he settled himself in the cradle of her thighs, she just hitched her knees over his hips and let him press inside.

A sudden stinging pain broke through her afterglow. It wasn’t the terrible, being-torn-in-two sensation the girls at Hogwarts sometimes whispered about. Evidently that was an exaggeration, a silly schoolgirls’ myth. But it still wasn’t pleasant.

“Hush,” Lucius soothed her as he seated himself fully. “Just breathe through it.”

She did as Lucius suggested, while he propped himself up so he could slip a hand between them and rub slowly at her clit. It was still a little sensitive, and she jerked at the touch with a strange squeaking sound. He quirked an eyebrow at her, almost smirking, and she surprised herself by giving a breathless laugh.

“Better?”

“Yes,” she said honestly, and experimentally shifted her hips.

He groaned and rested his head on her shoulder, pulling out and then pressing back inside. The pain was duller this time, and with each thrust it faded a little more. Soon all she could feel was her next orgasm building, higher and higher. The stroking of his fingers against her clit, the feel of his tongue on her nipple, the _stretch_ of his cock inside her all combined to make her whimper and moan and run restless hands over every inch of his skin she could reach.

This time when she came it was less sharp, less sudden, but it seemed to drag on longer until all she could do was gasp and clutch at him as he groaned one last time and pressed deep, finding his own release.

Hazel briefly noticed the now-golden line on her wrist, knowing his would be the same. She revelled in the feeling of her magic becoming strong and whole again. 

After a long moment to gather themselves, Lucius pressed a tender kiss to her breast. As he pulled out, her breath hitched.

“Sore?” he asked her solicitously.

“A little,” she admitted.

He leaned over to pull a jar, bowl and soft cloth from the drawer of his bedside table. After what they’d just done, Hazel would have thought embarrassment behind her. But when he knelt between her legs and gently washed her, then smoothed a cream on her tender parts outside and in, she felt her face grown warm.

She didn’t try to object though. It was another sign that Lucius also wanted this relationship to be functional, affectionate. And besides, the cream was obviously a potion of some sort, because her aches eased at once.

He put the items aside when he was done and looked down at her. He seemed to hesitate before reaching out a hand to run through her hair, and visibly relaxed when Hazel hummed in contentment and leaned into his palm.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank _you_ ,” Lucius returned. “You were lovely.”

Hazel bit her lip, feeling quite flattered by the compliment. She gave him points too, for managing to say ‘great shag’ without being vulgar. She found herself giggling, feeling a bit giddy. She’d had doubts—had she _ever_ had doubts—but Hazel was more sure than ever that she had been right to trust in Neville and Augusta. This could work. It could _really_ work.

“I’ve had the lady’s chambers remodelled for your use. They’re through the adjoining door there. Consider it your sanctuary, for I shall never enter without invitation. You’re welcome to retire there. However…” Lucius added slowly, thoughtfully, “you would be equally as welcome to rest here with me, in my bed, as often as you wish.”

Her eyes opened and she gave him an assessing glance. Was he offering to be polite, or did he genuinely want her to stay? It seemed unfair to ask, to expect him to bare more of himself, when he’d already made the first move in offering. But Hazel really needed to know. She wouldn’t stay if she wasn’t completely welcome.

“Which would you prefer?”

He paused, then trailed a hand down her body. It brushed over her cheek, dragged across breast and stomach, and finally came to rest possessively at her hip. His look became sultry as he admired her nude form.

“You look stunning against my sheets,” he drawled.

She hid a smile. What a _Slytherin_ answer. He managed to clarify without making himself any more vulnerable at all. Still, it was enough to clear up her uncertainty, and her own decision was easy to come to.

“I’d like to stay.”

And stay she did, and fell asleep soon after, held in his arms.

She dreamed of a happy future.


	2. Lucius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally caved and added to this story. The first chapter was Hazel’s POV. This one is Lucius’s side of the story. I guess I’d call this a two-shot now? This second part feels a bit too complete to just call it a bonus chapter. Hope you all like it.

Lucius remembered when Draco was thirteen. He had approached he and Narcissa looking paler even than usual, and stood before them all but shaking as he admitted to an inclination for wizards rather than witches.

Narcissa, the more demonstrative parent, had drawn their son into her arms at once and kissed his brow, promising he was still loved.

Lucius had merely nodded acceptingly and asked if there was any particular boy that had caught Draco’s fancy. He did his son the courtesy of pretending not to notice the way he slumped in relief, knowing how much Draco wanted to appear strong to his father. Lucius had been the same way with Abraxas.

In truth, Lucius had probably realised his son’s preference before the boy himself did. He’d long ago decided to accept it, even if it was … problematic. After all, not even magic allowed two men to procreate together, and Narcissa had been rendered barren by the long-awaited but difficult pregnancy and birth of Draco.

* * *

Lucius knew he came across as a cold man, and in many ways he was. The one great exception however, was family. Family was precious, coveted, to be cherished and protected at all costs. Bonds of blood and magic were as good as sacred. It was what he’d been raised to believe.

As much as he was raised to cherish family, Lucius was taught the importance of preserving the family _line_. The Malfoy family was an old one, with a noble history, and the possibility of it ending was anathema to him.

Equally anathema however, was the thought of his beloved son—who later became the only thing he had left of Narcissa—being forced into a loveless marriage with a spouse he could never be attracted to, doomed to live a lie. Draco deserved happiness, to be able to find a life partner of his choice, the same way Lucius had with Narcissa…

He’d heard the gossips of course—that his first marriage was one of convenience, an arrangement to join two old pure bloodlines: Malfoy and Black. While it was true that their families fully supported the union, it wasn’t they who brought it about. Lucius and Narcissa had started dating in fifth year of their own accord, were thoroughly infatuated by sixth, had bid their families create a contract between them in seventh, and married straight out of Hogwarts. Theirs was a love-match from beginning to end.

 _Draco_ deserved a love-match.

And so, Lucius had concluded, he would have to remarry and have a second heir—a child who could inherit from Draco so his eldest wouldn’t have to marry a woman, let alone bed one.

* * *

Making the decision to remarry and _finding_ a suitable spouse were two different matters.

Most of the Darker families wanted nothing to do with the Malfoys for betraying the Dark Lord. Lucius and Draco had finally broken from Voldemort after he murdered Narcissa at Hogwarts for lying about Hazel Potter’s survival. Not that they had been avid supporters of him before that, not in truth. But Karkaroff’s fate, shortly after Voldemort’s return, had disabused many of the wisdom of trying to leave the madman’s service. It was only thanks to a Fidelius-ed safe house, provided grudgingly by the Order of the Phoenix—quite the irony, given the many times they’d crossed wands previously—that the Malfoy family survived turning aside from the Dark Lord unscathed.

While the Order might have condescended to hide them—the sizeable gold donation he made to the organization doubtless helped quiet any objectors—it didn’t change the fact that the Light, even their old pure-blood families, wanted as little to do with the Malfoys as the Dark did these days. Their reasons were twofold: one, because Lucius and Draco at one point _had been_ loyal Death Eaters … if you could call ‘served out of desperation to save family and self’ true loyalty; and two, even if they could overlook the former point, many still decried Lucius and his son for their supposed ‘cowardice’ in running and hiding rather than simply switching to fight for the Light.

As for the Grey families, renowned for their avoidance of conflict, the Malfoys were far too politically volatile a proposition to tie themselves to these days.

Lucius had to admit it grated on his pride a bit. If he and Narcissa hadn’t fallen in love, he would have had his pick of brides as a younger man. Even some of the Lighter families might have considered it, in those days when ‘Malfoy’ stood for influence and affluence and opened doors wherever he went.

He supposed with a sufficiently generous bride-price he might be able to convince _someone_. But not just anyone would do. No, as previously stated, the Malfoy family’s reputation was in tatters. As much as Lucius intended to lift the burden of taking a wife off Draco’s shoulders, he also wanted for his son, and any sons or daughters that would follow, to be able to walk down Diagon Alley with their heads held high, without scornful looks and whispers, with _pride_ in their name.

He had only started seriously looking for a bride after the war ended, finding dead-ends at the end of each subtle inquiry. The only vaguely promising response had been from the Greengrasses. A Grey family, their patriarch had been a Ravenclaw yearmate and one of Lucius’s few friends who hadn’t joined Voldemort. Except … no, it wasn’t promising at all, because Anton Greengrass had been interested in wedding his youngest daughter, Astoria, with _Draco_ , which was the complete opposite of what Lucius was aiming for.

Incidentally, Lucius had never been more proud of his son than when he accidentally stumbled upon that correspondence. Rather than throw a fit, which would have been perfectly in character—Lucius _was_ aware that they had spoiled the boy somewhat—Draco had confronted him and grimly said, “I understand. There needs to be an heir after me. And I– I won’t put up a fuss. I’ll do the family proud, father.”

Draco’s mingled expression of sheer relief to learn that Lucius had no intention of accepting the offer if possible, and deep discomfort at the thought of his father married to another woman, was … well, rather hilarious to be truthful. Draco had bristled like a cat petted the wrong way when Lucius made the mistake of showing his amusement with a smirk. His son had always had a prideful ego. Narcissa had blamed Lucius for that—“Like father like son,” she used to say.

* * *

After several months of little success in the wife-searching business, the most perfect opportunity imaginable all but landed in Lucius’s lap. Quite literally actually—he’d been sitting in the parlour, drinking his morning tea, when a Daily Prophet owl swooped in and deposited a newspaper on his knees before flying off again.

There on the front page had been the flashing headline: “Matriarch Longbottom Initiates Match Call for Witch Which Won!”

The Witch Which Won. Hazel Potter. Last of an old bloodline, which Lucius knew his ancestors would approve of. A half-blood, which they wouldn’t. But at least the muggle connection was distant enough that none of their hypothetical children would have a muggle grandparent—the requirement to deem someone less than pure-blooded.

Also, given the family’s standing of late, taking a half-blooded wife—winning the hand of _The Witch Which Won_ in particular—would help mitigate the stain on the Malfoy reputation with the public in general and Light side in particular. The old Dark families, on the other hand, would consider her half-blood status something that could be overlooked for once, given Hazel Potter’s power, achievements and political capital, and the aforementioned fact that any children would _technically_ be pure-bloods. Extenuating circumstances and all that.

Yes, Hazel Potter would be completely, utterly perfect for his purposes.

Lucius wasn’t fool enough, however, to think a former Death Eater such as himself would serve _hers_.

If he was serious about making an offer, serious about being accepted … he would have to be willing to make sacrifices. It was the only way to convincingly present himself as not only worth the risk, but as the _best_ candidate.

It would be no small task, Lucius knew. But he wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing. He knew ambition, and he knew cunning, and he had honed both.

It wasn’t hard to locate a few of the early candidates who were interviewed by Matriarch Longbottom, and enquire as to the questions and information that the esteemed elderly witch considered relevant in searching for Hazel Potter’s Match. Added to the results of the background search he commissioned, Lucius had a fairly good idea of what he need to do, to be and to sacrifice in order to have any chance of success.

In the end, as if Fate herself smiled on his efforts, the young Longbottom heir provided Lucius the perfect opening during his interview.

Neville had grown increasingly more agitated as Lucius’s interview progressed and he managed to tick most of Augusta Longbottom’s boxes and answer her questions to satisfaction.

“And how do we know he’s telling the truth?” Neville finally demanded. “How can we simply trust his word? We can’t.”

“I would be willing to submit to truth serum,” Lucius offered smoothly as planned. “Two drops, not three, of course. So that you can be assured of truth when I answer, but I can still retain my silence and privacy where necessary.”

The younger man remained unimpressed, however. “Even if you pass that test, even if you mean every word _now_ , it doesn’t guarantee you wouldn’t lapse into your old ways at a later date. You’ve done it before. No, nothing would convince me short of … an Unbreakable Vow.”

Augusta sucked in a sharp breath, turning to reprimand her grandson for his gall—to demand such a thing was simply _not done_.

The boy remained defiant however, jaw set and eyes blazing. “It’s _Hazel_ , gran,” he insisted. “I don’t give a damn about propriety, I care about _her_.”

If nothing else, Lucius admired his dedication to his godsister’s wellbeing. Augusta Longbottom’s censure was no small thing to stand up to, but Neville did so in that moment without flinching.

As the sharp argument came to an end, Lucius came to a decision. He had responded to the Match Call, gone into the interview, with a goal firmly in mind, and wasn’t about to back down now.

“Very well,” he said. “An Unbreakable Vow it will be.”

Their matched looks of shock were passingly amusing.

But then Neville’s expression turned triumphant, and Augusta looked surprisingly calculative for a non-Slytherin as she pulled out parchment and quill. Lucius’s whole focus was then taken up with haggling over the wording of the Vow, making it as well-balanced as possible between something which would convince Hazel Potter’s representatives that he was her ideal Match, and being something he could truly live with being bound to.

* * *

Lucius couldn’t say that the age gap didn’t concern him a little. Of course it did, his wife-to-be was his _son’s_ age. If a man of Lucius’s years attempted to become involved with Draco… Well, needless to say Lucius would itch for his wand and, if not for the Vow restricting his less-than-Light actions, there would also be a body to hide.

So yes, the age difference had indeed bothered him a little, even if the implied maturity _had_ turned out to be a mark in his favour in Matriarch Longbottom’s eyes.

But then came the day of their hand-fasting, and as Lucius watched Hazel Potter approach the altar, clad in naught but a simple but flatteringly-tailored robe … it was clear to all present that this was very much a woman and not a girl come to be wed.

When Lucius brought her to his bedroom afterwards, when they progressed to disrobing, and she stood shyly naked before him, her womanhood was all the more apparent.

Narcissa had been pale—white skin, fair hair, icy-blue eyes—and tall and willowy. Deceptively delicate looking, but sharp-edged. A regal, elegant sort of beauty.

Hazel’s skin was milky-pale, but her eyes were bright emerald and her hair crimson. She was not as tall, but more curved, softer. Her hips were round, her waist nipped, and her breasts were full with pink nipples that he longed to taste.

Every bit a woman.

He took her to bed, any lingering reservations forgotten as he watched the flush spread from her cheeks, down her neck to colour her chest, while he worked his fingers into her till she cried out.

She blinked at him, still dazed, but welcoming, as he finally sheathed himself inside her and made her gasp and clutch at him as he brought them both to ecstasy. And if, as he did so, he bent to finally taste those nipples? They were as lovely as he’d imagined.

* * *

He woke some hours later, in the early dark of the morning, as a warm feminine weight shifted at his side. It had been a long time since he experienced such a thing—not since Narcissa, more than three years ago—and he was no longer used to the company. Not that Lucius had remained celibate all that time, not at all. But he hadn’t slept beside a woman, let alone invited one to rest in his own bed, since his wife died.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected that to change now either.

Lucius had gone into this, his second marriage, with his eyes wide open. It was a practical arrangement. Both sides were aware of that fact. They would be cordial, friendly, perhaps become friends.

But then, the evening before, the way Hazel had responded to him…

Lucius twisted a crimson curl around one finger as he contemplated his new wife. He knew that some sort of health issue had prompted her search for a husband. Augusta Longbottom had confided that much, if not the details, and Hazel had confirmed it last night. Lucius was well-tutored in magical theory however. He knew that any illness which required a marriage bond, a twining of souls, in order to recover from … could only be something very Dark. Curse damage, perhaps. A lingering remnant from the war, maybe even the doing of Voldemort himself.

The point being, Lucius knew his wife had married as much for necessity as he. Perhaps even more so. Pragmatism, not romance, brought them together. She needed no more from him than the official arrangement, and yet … it had been very clear that she was determined to see if there could be more than that.

Lucius himself had been raised expecting an arranged marriage, before Narcissa. He’d been taught how to treat a wife in such a circumstance, how to be tender and respectful and how to hopefully nurture an affection.

Hazel had reacted to every gesture and touch with a determined openness that was, quite frankly, stunning. And courageous. Admirably so. Even a Slytherin could acknowledge that. Perhaps _especially_ a Slytherin—they knew quite well how emotional vulnerability could be leveraged against a person.

The courage it took aside, her reaction was logical really, when he took a moment to think about it. Whatever the individual reasons that brought them to this point, they _were_ tied together for life now. They were _family_ , and that was no small thing, not to him. Probably not to an orphan either.

And so, after they had consummated their union—gilt lines now marked their wrists—and once he was sure she was cared for, Lucius had found himself speaking impulsively, something most uncharacteristic for him.

“I’ve had the lady’s chambers remodelled for your use,” he’d said. “They’re through the adjoining door there. Consider it your sanctuary, for I shall never enter without invitation. You’re welcome to retire there.” That much went as planned. The next bit however…

“You would be equally as welcome to rest here with me, in my bed, as often as you wish,” he had told her, surprising himself even as the words escaped his lips, though he didn’t let it show. And yet he hadn’t even considered withdrawing the offer when she sought to confirm his sincerity.

Coming back to the present, Lucius absentmindedly smoothed a hand up Hazel’s bare back. A small smile spread across his lips as she sighed softly in her sleep and unconsciously shifted closer to him.

Yes, perhaps this marriage could be about more than heirs and Draco’s freedom, the Malfoy reputation and Hazel’s health. Perhaps there could be affection and passion and maybe, if they were very lucky, love.

Narcissa, he was sure, would hex him thoroughly if he didn’t at least _try_ to find what happiness he could.

* * *

Above their bed, some enterprising house-elf had preserved and hung a flowered wreath.

Normally Lucius would chide the servant in question—he preferred private rooms not to be altered, furnished or decorated without permission. When he saw the way Hazel’s emerald eyes lit up on spotting it however, before she sent him a softly pleased look … he changed his mind and instead found the elf later and praised it discretely, sending the creature into tearful raptures.

Sometimes he would just take a moment to look at the wreath, at his wife’s wedding crown, remembering again the deep thought he’d put into choosing the flowers. It hadn’t been easy, given their history and their abrupt marriage, but he was in the end quite proud of what he put together: a symbol of marriage and fidelity of course, but also conveying his honest admiration for her and her achievements, and a hope they could start anew and achieve a happy union.

* * *

His two wives were both strong, courageous, loyal women. But they were different as well. Learning those differences, learning _Hazel_ , was something Lucius found he quite enjoyed, even if it took him off guard at times.

* * *

Narcissa, as was the case in most ancient pure-blood houses, had been raised to present a restrained, aloof image to the world. To family she could be soft and loving, but to strangers she was ice and grace. She would show no more attachment in public than absolutely necessary. Outside their home she might walk with her hand in the crook of Lucius’s elbow, or favour Draco with a motherly hand to the cheek, but that was the extent of her public displays of affection.

Hazel was a very different sort of woman. No less well-mannered and graceful in her own way—Augusta Longbottom had seen to that—but so much more _open_. Once assured that Lucius welcomed her affections, Hazel thought nothing of threading her fingers through his, even as they walked down the middle of Diagon Alley. She would lean into his side at times, and whisper in his ear when she wanted to speak to him, and kiss his cheek when they parted no matter who was watching.

The forward behaviour had startled Lucius at first, but he quickly found he liked it.

A tiny corner of his mind lamented that he never had such openness with Narcissa while he could, but having been raised in a similar manner, the idea that it could be different never occurred to him. It had taken his second, courageous Gryffindor wife to lead the way.

Oddity and enjoyment of it aside, Hazel’s behaviour amused him too, for how it set tongues wagging. A very many people, Lucius suspected, had concocted theories of some secret romance between them during the latter year of the war, and that their marriage was a love-match rather than an arrangement, Match Call or not. The theories certainly didn’t hurt Lucius’s reputation, or the Malfoy family name for that matter.

Upon returning from one such trip to Diagon, a month into their marriage, Hazel inquired if he minded the rumours. In response, Lucius carefully admitted the benefits he saw.

Hazel just stared at him for a moment. “Is that the only benefit you see in it?” she asked quietly.

Lucius was shaking his head before she even finished. “No, not at all.” He cupped her face in his hands, seeing and disliking very much the carefully-hidden but still-visible hurt in her eyes. “I only mention it because I Vowed to tell you no lies. And this is the truth also: Even without the social advantages, I quite like how free you are with me. I like you near. I like your touch, and your kisses.”

Her lips, which had slowly turned up as her eyes grew bright with happiness, were soon much too busy for smiling. He kissed her until she was panting as she pulled back to whisper, “Take me to bed?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he murmured, swept her into his arms, and headed upstairs.

* * *

Another way his wives differed was in their … connubial activities.

Narcissa was a gently-bred lady in all ways. Aloof in public, more fond in private, but still maintaining a certain reserve. Even in their coming together as man and wife she was delicate and … proper probably wasn’t the right word, given the activities. Sweet. She had liked things sweet, and careful, and adored being treated gently and lovingly like she was the most precious thing to him, which she very much had been. And they never made love outside their bed, in their suite, in the evenings.

Not to say that Narcissa was anything close to one-dimensional. Sometimes their lovemaking had been more intense, sometimes it would last forever as they stared into one another’s eyes, overwhelmed by their love. And once in a blue moon Narcissa’s need for sweetness would slip entirely in favour of something more … wild.

The first time it happened, the first time Narcissa’s soft sighs transformed into delighted screams, and she left bloody scratches down his back, had been … a revelation. It had shocked and excited Lucius—a young, less experienced man back then—so much that he nearly embarrassed himself and took his pleasure too early.

Secretly, Lucius suspected one of these rare occasions had been behind Draco’s conception. He never mentioned it of course, because it would have mortified Narcissa if he did—she had always flushed pink and insisted on healing the marks she left on him, even if he might have preferred to keep them a little longer. Telling Draco was of course utterly unacceptable, utterly improper, though Lucius imagined his son’s reaction would doubtless be hilarious.

But he digressed: Mostly, Narcissa was sweet. And, on rare occasion, wild.

Hazel was something different entirely.

Having come to the marriage bed untouched—a surprise which, if he was to be honest, pleased him some—his first joining with Hazel had been shy on her part and careful but thorough on his. As time went on however, she found her confidence, an ease in her body and pleasure with him. And her approach changed, as he had expected it to, bold Gryffindor hero that his new wife was.

Once they settled into a rhythm, their bedroom activities were more uninhibited: sometimes playful, often sensual, frequently intense.

Hazel was unapologetic and stunningly open in her desires. She could be utterly hedonistic, demanding his attentions frequently—not that it was any burden to comply. And yet she wasn’t a selfish lover. If anything she was quite generous, playfully inviting Lucius to tell her his fantasies so that they could explore them.

Explore, exploratory… Yes, that was a good word for his lovemaking with Hazel. They learned each other as much through touch and taste and passion as they did their more platonic moments, not having the advantage of several years’ proper courting before they’d been wed as he had with Narcissa.

Another difference with his new wife was that their bedroom activities were not, despite the name, restricted solely to the bedroom.

Case in point…

* * *

“This isn’t our bed,” Hazel mock-chided as he finally set her down and began to strip their clothing. “It looks very much like the bathroom.”

“Hmm, the alley was dusty. I thought we could bathe first.”

They settled in the tub, her back to his chest. She all but melted as he washed her hair. Next he ran a washcloth over her body, enjoying the way she hummed when he paid perhaps more attention to her breasts than was necessary, and then gasped softly when he dipped between her legs.

“Lucius,” she moaned as he let the washcloth float away but continued to massage her there. Lightly though, teasing and taunting and not quite enough.

“Yes, my dear?” he asked, attempting an unaffected tone. But Hazel was getting rather good at reading him, he had noticed. She no doubt heard the slight huskiness he couldn’t hide, and also the underlying laughter.

Sure enough, she gave a huff and swatted his hands away, then turned around with an accusing pout. He blinked at her in his best guileless fashion. Her eyes narrowed, then she smiled ever-so-sweetly, shifted to straddle his lap and sunk down.

His head fell back with a hissed groan, hands clamping on her hips. “ _Demon_ ,” he accused.

She settled herself comfortably, like he wasn’t _inside of her_ , and reached for the shampoo.

“Really?” he asked. “You think now is the time to return the favour?”

She blinked at him, returning his earlier guileless look. “You don’t want me to wash your hair?” she asked softly.

He was almost one hundred percent sure that she was playing him. But then she bit her lip as her face fell and looked away and… Truthfully? Lucius was not quite capable of rational thought at that precise moment. He challenged _any man_ to be so when their woman was warm and wet and tight around him.

“Of course I would like that,” he said.

Her smile was all things victorious.

He let her think she had won, because he knew she truly did enjoy washing his hair, as much as she liked him washing hers. She was rather enamoured with his hair in general actually—“It’s terribly unfair you know,” she had told him one morning. “Even just out of bed your hair is sleek and smooth and tangle-free—I can even run my fingers through it! But mine, curse my father’s genes, is a horrible mess at the best of times.”

He had replied, quite honestly, that he thought hers was lovely, that her tumble of wild crimson curls made his fingers itch to bury his hands in them. This had been only a week or so into their marriage, and the compliment combined with his husky tone had made her flush … and then he’d kissed her and she had grown flushed for a different reason.

So yes, he would let her indulge in washing his hair, and thinking she had won. But he was Lucius Malfoy, Slytherin to the bone, and he did not play fair.

“Everything all right, my dear?” he asked when she faltered.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as if she didn’t know. Her hands resumed their washing motions, slower than before.

“Oh, I believe I missed a spot earlier,” he murmured, continuing to massage her breasts.

She huffed, but he could tell it was mostly amusement, her annoyance feigned. “That’s two spots.”

“Why, so it is.”

“And I’m fairly sure you didn’t miss them.”

“I misspoke. I didn’t miss these spots, I was simply not … _thorough_ enough,” he said, making his tone as deep and provocative as he could, smirking when she shuddered.

Her eyes narrowed on his smirk, and a silent ‘challenge accepted’ flitted through her eyes, right before she clenched down on him. And then again, and again, in an unceasing rhythm that made his head fall to her shoulder.

She laughed, the wicked, delightful thing. He pinched her nipples in retaliation, making her gasp and involuntarily grip his hair tighter, tugging his head back.

“Demon,” he accused again, meeting her gaze.

“What sort?” she asked, moving on to rinsing his hair.

“Oh, a succubus. No doubt about it.” When she was done he lifted her off him, biting back a groan as she whined. “I shall have to take control, lest you steal my sanity entirely.”

“Oh?” she asked, eyelids drooping. “Control, hmm…?”

One of the fantasies she had managed to get him to confess to, which they had explored and quite enjoyed, was the concept of dominance and submission. Nothing so gauche as whips and chains—although he _had_ let her tie him to the bedposts once. She’d ridden him to her own completion over and over, whilst he gritted his teeth, until finally, exhausted and trembling, she had slipped off him and slid down and took him in her mouth. Lucius had been fairly certain at the time that he’d never come so hard in his life.

Mostly though the give and take of control was subtle: his weight pressing her down as he caught her wrists; or her hands wrapped in his hair, directing him as she spread her thighs and let him kiss her in that intimate place; his teeth at her neck; her hand on his cock, too light for satisfaction, pulling back when he tried for more…

Here and now, he turned Hazel around and pushed her towards the edge of the sunken tub, then bent her over it. She pressed a flushed cheek to the cold mosaic tile floor and bit her lip. He nudged her legs apart and began to explore her exposed sex from behind until his fingers were slick with her and she was whimpering.

“Lucius,” Hazel sighed in relief when he finally stopped teasing and pressed into her properly. Her fingers scrabbled at the tiles and, unable to find purchase, pressed flat instead. “Please. Oh…”

He brought her release twice, screams echoing in the tiled chamber, before growing impatient.

“But you haven’t–” Hazel tried to object when he pulled them both from the bath.

“I want you in our bed after all,” he confessed.

They dried with perhaps more haste than thoroughness, then he swept her into his arms. Hazel automatically wrapped her legs around his waist and gave a satisfied cry as she found him. He stumbled as she undulated in his arms, head falling back, practically inviting him to suck a bruise into her neck.

He somehow managed the last few steps to their adjoining bedroom without dropping her or embarrassing himself. Though she didn’t make it easy, especially given the soft, dissatisfied sound she made as he slipped from her when he spilled her onto their bed, and how her hand quickly slid down between her legs.

He froze for a long moment, just watching, until her back arched and she came on her own fingers and settled again, panting. It was the wickedly _knowing_ look in her eyes, the barely-hidden smirk, that finally jolted him into action.

“Demon,” he accused once more, voice barely-recognisable. He crawled atop her, pressed her knees back, and sheathed himself in one smooth movement, admiring the way Hazel’s eyes rolled back and her mouth opened on a wordless cry. “There we go.”

“Yes, there,” she gasped back as he thrust. “Like that. Please.”

As they lost themselves in one another again, Hazel’s nails left half-crescent marks on his shoulders and arms—little bloody remnants of their pleasure. The tiny corner of Lucius’s mind not caught up in _hot-wet-tight-good-mine-take-give_ decided that he would keep the marks till they healed, already looking forward to the way Hazel would flush whenever she caught sight of them, torn between sheepish and a smug possessiveness he found rather fetching upon her.

* * *

Lucius choked on his tea. His hacking cough was completely undignified, but he thought he could be forgiven, considering. The cause was _more than_ sufficient.

At his side, his wife gently patted his back, but a glance her way showed a barely-suppressed hilarity beneath her shock. He favoured Hazel with a mild glare, and watched her face twitch before she curled closer and buried it in his shoulder, wrapping an arm across his waist.

Draco, meanwhile, looked about ready to vomit. For once it wasn’t due to his father and stepmother’s gestures of affection—“Nauseating!” Draco once declared when he came down to breakfast one morning and caught them kissing across the table in the solarium. “I may fully support this marriage, but I don’t need to _see_ such things!”—but down to sheer nerves instead.

Lucius reminded himself that he had to be a good father now, that was the priority, even if he _would_ prefer to get up and leave and pretend he never heard his son’s words. Perhaps he’d even Obliviate himself for good measure.

Taking a deep, even breath, he said, “Draco, no matter what you do, no matter who you lo–” He paused to clear his throat, pointedly ignoring the muffled snicker at his shoulder. “No matter who you _love_ ,” he choked out, “I will always accept you, support you. You are my son. This is unconditional.”

“Truly?” Draco’s tone was, understandably, rather disbelieving. “You did hear _who_ has been courting me, did you not?”

“Yes. And I thank you for having the courtesy to inform me before making introductions.”

“I was unsure as to how you’d react. I felt a warning may be prudent to avoid … unpleasantness.” Draco was beginning to look a bit more confident. “So I have your approval?”

“Yes,” Lucius managed to say with minimal wincing.

Hazel finally managed to gather herself enough to join the conversation. “Well,” she said, sitting up straight again, “I’d suspected you had a thing for redheads, but I thought it was a different one that caught your eye.”

Identical blank looks turned her way.

“I had this theory,” Hazel explained earnestly. A bit _too_ earnestly, and Lucius’s eyes narrowed as he braced himself, familiar by now with his wife’s impish moments.

“Theory?” Draco asked. The poor boy didn’t know any better.

“Yes. Like pulling pigtails, you know. You and Ronald _did_ spend an awful lot of time bickering like besotted, emotionally-stunted toddlers.”

Once more, Draco looked like he wanted to vomit. Lucius was fairly sure his face looked the same—he _had_ encountered the ill-mannered, temperamental, youngest Weasley son a time or two.

His wicked, evil wife fell into a fit of giggles.

“No,” Draco finally managed to spit. “Merlin and all the gods, _never_.”

“You sure?”

“I am absolutely, completely positive that it’s _Charlie_ I’m seeing, not…” Draco trailed off, shuddering.

“I admit to great relief at hearing that,” Lucius confessed. “While I haven’t encountered the second of Arthur’s children as often, those times that I did he seemed vastly more mature and well-mannered than Ronald.”

“He is,” Draco said, expression turning soft and … well, enamoured. Lucius warmed at the sight of it, because wasn’t that exactly what he’d hoped Draco would find? “He’s a little rough around the edges, I’ll admit, but he’s been a perfect gentleman–”

“He’d better have been,” Lucius muttered, making Hazel giggle again.

“–and very sweet, _and_ he shares my passion for dragons. He’s recently transferred to the Welsh Dragon Reserve, where I’m doing my studies, so he can be near his family. That’s how we met.”

“Well,” Hazel said, tone still amused, but also genuinely warm, “I wish you both every happiness.”

She and Draco had formed a hesitant friendship of sorts since her marriage to Lucius. Provided Hazel and his father weren’t doing anything Draco found scandalous—though Draco, it seemed, found even the sight of them standing close and holding hands to be too much for his poor eyes and delicate stomach—they got on quite well, and she was clearly pleased for him.

“You invited him for Christmas, I hope?” she asked.

Draco lit up, but threw a questioning glance towards Lucius. When Lucius nodded, Draco grinned. “His harpy of a mother demands his presence Christmas Day, but he says he will definitely make himself available for Christmas Eve.”

“That’ll work quite well actually. We were intending to invite Neville and Augusta over, but they usually spend Christmas Day at St Mungo’s visiting Neville’s parents. We can have Christmas a day early, and everyone will be able to come.” She nodded firmly, and like that it was all decided.

Lucius meanwhile was glad that Christmas was still three weeks off. It gave him more time to come to terms with the horrifying fact that his son was being courted by a _Weasley_.

Malfoy ancestors were rolling over in their graves.

* * *

Christmas Eve, to Lucius’s surprise, had gone quite smoothly. It had even been—dare he say it?—pleasant.

If someone had told his past self, even as short a time as a year ago, that he would enjoy a dinner hosted at Malfoy Manor, with the invited guests all from prominent _Light_ families, one a _Weasley_ no less… Well, his past self wouldn’t have believed it for a moment. And yet, it had happened.

Charles Weasley had been … tolerable, he supposed, though it grated to admit it. And really, any wizard who presumed to court Lucius’s beloved son couldn’t hope for any more than that from Lucius.

“Stop pouting,” an amused voice said from his side. “You know you like Charlie–”

“ _Like_ is perhaps being overgenerous.”

“–and he makes Draco happy, which I know is important to you.”

He sighed. “Yes, I suppose. But I reserve the right to be irrationally resentful of him despite that. Or perhaps because of it. It is a father’s prerogative.”

She laughed into his chest and Lucius looked down, admiring the nude form splayed across his as they lay on the grass. Sunlight shined on every tempting dip and curve. He traced a finger up her spine and smiled as she all but purred in contentment.

Draco would probably have a fit at them ‘defiling’ the garden—and also the solarium, the library and the parlour before they’d finally made their way outside—but as his son was away and not expected back till the morrow, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

As to why Draco was absent, his beau had invited him to the rather … _quaintly_ -named ‘Burrow’ to meet his family. Draco, for reasons unknown to Lucius, had actually accepted.

“Don’t worry,” Charles had whispered to Lucius before they left that morning, “it’ll be awkward but everyone should be polite. Except maybe Ron. But if he gets too much, I’ll make our excuses and we’ll leave for mine early. Mum’ll be furious at Ron for driving me off and ruining Christmas. She’ll chew him out so thoroughly he’ll be afraid to breathe wrong around Draco for a while, let alone be insulting.”

Lucius had raised a mildly impressed eyebrow. “You show surprising cunning for a Gryffindor,” he’d said, making the other wizard laugh.

“You sound like Draco. Not sure _why_ you Slytherins think you have the market cornered on being tricksy, but I assure you, you don’t.”

He’d thought of his wife then—her wickedly tempting ways, and the mischievous games she sometimes played with him—and had to concede the point.

“Hmm, stop that,” Hazel said, making him realise that his hands had begun to … _wander_ , as his mind did.

“Stop? Are you sure?”

Her first, “Yes,” was less than convincing. The second one was firmer, and then she pushed his hands away and sat up, straddling him.

“This,” Lucius drawled, sitting up and leaning back on his hands, admiring the view, “is _not_ helping me keep my hands to myself.”

She laughed lightly, and rested her arms over his shoulders and kissed him. It was fairly chaste as kisses went. Soft and sweet, and when Hazel pulled back she stared into his eyes with an emotion he couldn’t quite place.

He raised one hand to her cheek. “What is it?” he asked in a hush, though he wasn’t sure why. It just seemed like the moment called for quiet.

Her smile was slow to spread, but luminous. “I want to give you your Christmas present.”

“You already did that yesterday, if you recall?” They and their guests had exchanged gifts before dinner.

“Hmm, but there’s something else.” And then she gently took his hand from her cheek and lowered it, pressing it to her abdomen.

It took him a moment, but then his eyes went wide. He sat up fully, free arm going around her, unconsciously protective and possessive. He stared from his hand on her stomach, actually shaking where he touched her, then back up to meet her eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked, choked.

She nodded, beaming. “I caught it early. My menses is only a week late. But the test was conclusive. I’m three weeks along.”

Really, there was only one possible response.

He kissed her.

Kissed her with more passion than he’d ever kissed her before.

* * *

The wreath hung above their bed was framed rather artistically with four curling ribbons—the ones Hazel had selected for their hand-fasting. She had chosen just as well as he had with the flowers, Lucius would reflect, whenever he looked at it.

There was the traditional white for marriage of course. Blue for patience and understanding, something two previously-adversarial individuals would need going into a marriage with hope of success, which was represented by the gold ribbon. Finally was a soft green one, a plea for children, for fertility and virility.

Lucius could remember how Hazel had blushed as she presented it to Augusta during the hand-fasting, but kept her chin high and didn’t waver. She knew what she wanted and didn’t back down.

Courageous, that’s what his wife was. And as he watched her grow fuller with their child, he had never been more grateful for it. It had taken Lucius and Narcissa _years_ to conceive Draco—he and Hazel had been married less than a half of one when she made the announcement.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the ribbon. Or perhaps it had _everything_ to do with it. Either way, every time he saw the framed wreath Lucius couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

“She’ll see you now, Mr Malfoy.”

He barely managed to nod at the healer, but the woman, if he would have cared to look, seemed more amused and understanding than offended as he rushed past her.

His hurried pace slowed as he entered the room, eyes riveted to the sight that met his eyes. Hazel, tired and sweaty and somehow more beautiful than ever to him, sat reclined on the bed. In her arms a tiny swaddled form was held to one breast and she gazed on it with awe.

She dragged her gaze away when he sat himself carefully on her bedside, and for a moment his breath caught as that awed gaze was turned his way.

“Lucius,” she whispered, voice threaded with amazement and joy, “look what we made.”

He looked down into the face of his secondborn for the first time. Just as he had with Draco, Lucius fell immediately in love. He reached out for the hand that had escaped the swaddling and a lump caught in his throat as tiny fingers gripped his pinky finger. His thumb brushed ever so carefully over a head of wispy, strawberry-blond curls.

“She’s beautiful,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Have you chosen a name?” Traditionally, fathers named the sons, and mothers the daughters.

“I was thinking … Anastasia.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and she smiled gently at him. “My mother?” he asked, remembering the beautiful, graceful woman who he’d loved and desperately missed when she died. He’d only been twelve when it happened. “I thought you’d choose Lily.”

“I considered it, but I don’t know, she just _feels_ more like an Anastasia to me. Annie, I’ll call her.” She gave him an amused look. “Though no doubt _you’ll_ insist on being more formal.”

“But of course,” he drawled, though inwardly he expected he’d end up calling her ‘princess’ or ‘sweetheart’—something _terribly_ soppy—and be wrapped around her little finger. For now though, he would maintain a façade of dignity. “Middle name then? Anastasia Lily Potter.”

But again Hazel shook her head. “Anastasia Malfoy Potter,” she said softly, and pressed a kiss to his chest over his heart when he swallowed, knowing how much it meant to him. “Potter heiress she may be, but her daddy’s a Malfoy. I won’t deny that.”

Lucius traced two fingers under Hazel’s chin, lifting it, then pressed his lips to hers. It was soft and slow, and he poured every ounce of his affection and gratitude and awe into it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. He waited till her eyelids fluttered open again before saying, “ _Thank you_ ,” with more sincerity than he’d ever done before. What he didn’t say was ‘I love you’, but he suspected very much that it wouldn’t be long before that changed. And, if the tender look in her eyes was any indication, he was not the only one.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered in return, then reluctantly pulled away when Anastasia finished feeding, letting Lucius hold their precious daughter as she fixed her gown back up to preserve her modesty before suggesting, “Why don’t you tell the others they can come in now. They’ve been almost as eager to meet her as we have.”

He carefully eased Anastasia back into her mother’s arms and went to do just that, only to pause halfway to the door, spin on his heels and return for another kiss. “ _Thank you_ ,” he murmured against her mouth, in that same reverent tone as before.

Then he finally left to call in the others, especially looking forward to introducing Draco to his new sister.

* * *

Lucius had gone into his second marriage with his eyes wide open.

It was a practical arrangement.

But the more time passed, the more certain he was that it would be a love-match after all.


End file.
